


The Difference Between A Lady And A Flower Girl

by che5h1recat



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Eggsy, Fix-It, Getting Together, Harry Hart Lives, I haven't really thought this thing through, Jesus this tagging thing is really Hart, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Build, definitely plan on adding smut at some point in the future, so I'll just make it up as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/che5h1recat/pseuds/che5h1recat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Eggsy Unwin meets Harry Hart is in front of Holborn police station.</p><p> </p><p>This story starts at Eggsy's and Harry's first meeting, focusing on the development of their relationship and continues onward through the events of the movie and afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I really love this fandom and everyone in it. So, cheers for giving this story a try!  
> Secondly, I didn't choose to make this a female Eggsy fic (I know that's not up everone's alley, and that's fine), because I don't enjoy a homosexual Harry/Eggsy couple (I do enjoy reading it ;-) ), but simply for the reason that, being female myself, I just find it a lot harder to write from a male perspective personally and I'm just afraid I would get frustrated at the difficulty of it too often.  
> I've been an avid reader of fanfiction for quite a while now, or well, I guess I'm just a passionate reader in general, but I never fancied myself an author.  
> So this is not only my fist fic ever, but also my first attempt at writing anything, really, that is just for my own pleasure and maybe the pleasure of the odd person who might read this.  
> Also I have to warn ya, I'm not a native English speaker, so I really hope I didn't fuck the grammar or anything else up too badly.  
> I tried my best but it's neither beta'd and nor brit-picked by anyone else but me. So please feel free to point out mistakes to me! I'm very willing to learn ;-)  
> I don't wanna ramble too much, since I'm sure you've all got better stuff to do, so:  
> I hope you enjoy this. If so, I'd be delighted if you would let me know. If not, no hard feelings :-)  
> I'm also always open to constructive criticism.  
> Lastly, I'm afraid the first few chapters are gonna be a bit slow, because I wanted to begin the development of their relationship during the events of the movie. I'll try my best not to be too repetetive in those first few chapters, because you all know what happened in the movie, and instead focus mostly on their thoughts, feelings and body language.  
> Ok, so here goes nothing^^

The first time Eggsy Unwin meets Harry Hart is in front of Holborn police station.

A thousand thoughts are running through her head. She just called a strange number on that strange medal she has been wearing around her neck ever since the death of her father and not even fifteen minutes later, she is cleared of all charges, free to go.

A part of her feels like this has to be a joke or a trick. Someone will come to arrest her again as soon as she leaves the station just to add attempted jailbreak to her sentence, or maybe they just let her go to identify her accomplices after all, her friends that she had refused to grass up, by keeping her under surveillance of some sort. Another part of her, the one she would never admit to out loud – because it is clearly naïve and romanticising and _weak_ – but which she can’t silence in the safety and seclusion of her own thoughts, tells her that it must have really been that phone call that saved her from 18 months of imprisonment, that someone is keeping their promise, that someone out there is really looking out for her.

Which again sparks the bitter thought, why that someone hasn’t been there for the last seventeen years, when Dean beat her mum up, over and over again, when Eggsy gave up her dreams of Olympia because of him and later the Marines to be there for her mother. And also if that phone call has really been her very own personal Get Out Of Jail Free Card, has she wasted it? On that admittedly stupid stunt with Rottie’s car? What else could she have gotten away with or more specifically: Could she have gotten rid of Dean, that dirty, violent bastard, instead? Once and for all? But if she really could have, would she have?

Caught up in those thoughts, her gaze wary, looking behind her to see if she is being followed, Eggsy exits the police station. Nobody pays her any heed whatsoever though, nobody tries to talk to her or stop her. And fuck, who is she to look a gift horse in the mouth? She is almost ready to relax and let go of the tension coiled tightly in her body, when she hears a voice: “Eggsy.”

She stops and turns. She hadn’t even noticed the man standing on the staircase although she must have walked right past him _and_ she had been on the alert. How odd…

He is middle-aged, quite a bit older than her – that much is clear, wearing a fancy pinstriped suit and a pair of expensive looking sunglasses, his hair slicked back in an elegant way. He is casually leaning against the railing, one hand in the pocket of his expensive suit trousers, one curled around the handle of an umbrella, even though the sun is shining brightly.

Something about him feels vaguely familiar although Eggsy is pretty sure she has never met this guy before in her life. Posh toffs like that one don’t usually mingle with her lot.

Before she can contemplate him any further, let alone start wondering about how the fuck he knows her name, he adds, “Would you like a lift home?”

And bloody hell, if that bloke doesn’t talk just as fucking posh as he looks. But still, she gets that eerie feeling like she heard that voice before, somewhere… She almost snorts at herself, because it’s ridiculous, but suppresses the urge in favour of asking the question currently occupying her mind: “Who are you?”

“The man who got you released,” he replies easily with the corners of his mouth turning up into the ghost of a smile. He looks as if he expects a ‘thank you’ for that. Well, he can keep waiting, because Eggsy doesn’t give a rat’s arse about exchanging pleasantries, she wants an answer and she isn’t shy to tell him as much.

“A little gratitude would be nice,” is his expected reply, but his tone is surprisingly teasing and he doesn’t actually seem offended by her lack of etiquette. After a pause he seems to give up trying to appeal to her manners and continues in a more serious tone, “My name is Harry Hart – and I gave you that medal.”

That knocks her for six for a moment. She stares at him, shock and disbelief appearing on her face, as she takes that little piece of information in, but at the same time she knows he isn’t lying, she remembers him now. If not his face, then his _voice._ Remembers him asking for her name all those years ago, taking the snow globe from her hand and handing her the medal, now dangling around her neck, instead.

“Your father saved my life,” he adds and she can’t stop her lip from quivering for a second at the mention of him. She barely remembers her father, but she silently cherishes every memory of him that she still has, as few as they are, and this man _knew_ him, actually knew the man that should have played such an important part in her life, had he not died in action and been replaced by the poor, utterly inadequate substitute of Dean Anthony Baker.

Harry has her then, the moment he utters those two words ‘your father’, and they both know it.

  ~~~~

* * *

 

They don’t speak much as they take the taxi that is obviously already waiting for them to Eggsy’s ends, but Eggsy continues to scrutinize Harry out of the corner of her eye. She is sure he notices, but since he doesn’t call her out on it, she doesn’t bother stopping.

He didn’t look like an ex-marine or something along those lines upon first glance. But now, upon further inspection she has a feeling she might have misjudged him. He is tall and lean, brought-shouldered and, she assumes, quite fit under his well-fitting suit. His movements are surprisingly graceful for a bloke, the gymnast in her notes, smooth and controlled. His hands are sure and steady and have peculiar callouses she wouldn’t have expected on an upper-crust chap. His hair is full and only peppered with the slightest hints of grey at his temples, the lines on his close-shaven face make his aristocratic features even more pronounced. The crinkles around his eyes are clearly laughter lines, the ones on his forehead she imagines to be from mockingly raised eyebrows, while the ones on the corners of his mouth might be either from smiling or frowning or both. It is hard to estimate his age, although she figures it has to be about twice her own. Whatever, Eggsy catches herself thinking, he is _pretty dishy_. She wonders idly what would happen if she flirted with him, whether she could make him uncomfortable, could make him lose his cool, and suppresses a smirk at the thought.

Another voice in her head, however, reminds her that there is no such thing as a free lunch in life, she’s learned that lesson a long time ago. That part of her, the scared and fragile one, the one that is shaped by years of living with an abusive stepfather and other thugs, is afraid. Afraid of what this guy wants from a bird like her, because he does want _something,_ she is sure of that, he wouldn’t be here otherwise. And while she likes to think she can take care of herself, has done so as long as she can remember, she cannot really read this man, doesn’t know what he’s capable of, only has this vague, uneasy feeling that he’s not quite what he appears to be. It’s both intriguing and unsettling.

They end up at the “Black Prince”, because while she can’t resist the temptation to question this man more about her father, she is by no means stupid enough to take this fella home with her. They leave the taxi and it drives off without either of them paying. Again this strikes her as weird, what was it with this chap? She shrugs it off though without commenting, this is none of her concern.

The place is empty at this time of day and it’s probably too early for drinking, but they sit down in a booth, Eggsy with a pint of lager and Harry with a Guinness. He tells her he’s a tailor, which makes sense considering his bespoke suit, and works at some place called “Kingsman” that she’s never heard of. She starts asking about the army, what his position was, where he was posted, but all his answers are cagey and Eggsy doesn’t pry, although it doesn’t exactly serve to ease her mind about Harry Hart. But maybe he just wants to show off with all that secret-mongering.

She settles on asking about her father instead trying to prompt Harry into talking, her forearms resting on the table, her body leaning forward in anticipation, hoping he will be more forthcoming with that kind of information considering he raised the topic himself, when he approached her.

He is, but the story about her father’s act of heroism and Harry’s sense of indebtedness to him, which serves to make her beam with pride, quickly sours and turns into a lecture about what Harry obviously considers to be her “bad life choices”. She dimly registers him making mention of having read her files – What files? Police files? – and thinking no fucking tailor would have the authority to release her from an 18 months prison sentence, but before her mind can really process those thoughts, she feels anger and defensiveness rising up inside her, effectively distracting her from continuing along her previous train of thought. She crosses her arms in front of her chest while she listens to him telling off a list of her failures.

Who does this posh fucking wanker think he is that has a right to judge her, to tell her her dad would be disappointed in her? He obviously doesn’t know shit about her, about the sacrifices she had to make and the things she had to deal with every single day, ever since Dean and his goons entered her and her mother’s lives? How dare he make assumptions? She doesn’t know why it bothers her so much, why she has the urge to defend herself, to change his view about her, make Harry see she’s not like that. That she could have been better, could have been like her dad if she had ever gotten a chance.

After she has made her opinion known in her little rant about ivory towers and silver spoons, however, Harry doesn’t get a chance to reply, because Dean’s goons choose right at that moment to make an entrance. Rottweiler bristles the moment he sets eyes on her of course. After all, he hadn’t got a chance to get his hands on her yet, after she had pulled that little stunt with his car yesterday, and for a second she thinks that maybe if Harry sees what she has to deal with around here, maybe he’ll understand.

But the thought is quickly discarded, this here is dangerous and she doesn’t want the older man to get hurt because of her. She sits up, her body going tense and entering fight or flight mode within a second, only there is nowhere to run right now.

Harry seems unimpressed and smartly supplies: “Some more examples of young men who simply need a silver suppository?” She would have snorted if the situation weren’t anything but funny, so she just says: “No, they’re exceptions. Come on,” trying to prompt him into getting up and leaving, because maybe, just maybe Dean’s roughs would let her go this one time if she was with Harry.

But Harry Hart is obviously a lot ballsier or a lot denser than she would have thought, because he makes no move to stand up, simply stating: “Nonsense, we haven’t finished our drinks,” while casually taking another sip of his Guinness. Even Rottie looks at him dumbly at that, but then again Rottie never looks intelligent. Poodle on the other hand just ignores Harry completely, his sole focus on Eggsy as he gets up in her face, telling her that Dean said she was fair game now.

Fear starts to creep into her chest. She’s really up shit creek this time. Her head whips around towards Harry again, who seems intent on digging them in deeper and deeper, interrupting Poodle with a smile that’s apparently supposed to be placating: “Listen, boys, I’ve had a rather …emotional day. So whatever your beef with Eggsy is,“ she almost smiles at how hilariously posh he’s sounding, “and I’m sure it's well-founded,” and just as quickly the almost-smile turns into a dismayed glare, “I’d appreciate it enormously if you could just leave us in peace until I finish this lovely pint of Guinness.”

The group of thugs exchange bewildered glances, obviously wondering who the fuck that old, fancy-talking fucker currently kotching with her is and starting to get pissed at him for chipping in. All Eggsy can do is close her eyes in resignation for a moment and wait for what’s to come. She does kind of like Harry – even though she can’t really say why, since she barely knows him and he’s been rather reproachful towards her so far – but he obviously doesn’t know what’s good for him. A shame really, because she would hate for that handsome face to get banged up. She almost feels something akin to gratitude towards Rottie, when he tells Harry: “You should get outta the way, Granddad, or you’ll get ‘urt an’ all.” She takes that opportunity to urge the older man again: “He ain’t jokin’. You should go.”

Harry purses his lips, but finally seems to relent, setting his almost-finished pint on the table, getting up his umbrella in hand and heading for the door. Eggsy feels a wave of relief wash over her as she listens to his receding footsteps. She stays seated, looking down at the table resigning herself to her own fate. Poodle however seems to find it funny to leave Harry with some parting words before the latter has reached the exit: “If you're lookin’ for another prozzie, they’re on the corner of Smith Street.”

Eggsy doesn’t even react, she’s been called a whore or worse more times than she can count, but Harry stops dead in his tracks. Whether it’s because of the insult towards her or the implication that he would be someone to engage the services of a prostitute, she doesn’t know. She would like to believe it is her honour that he wants to defend, because she is many things but not a whore. But the rational part of her brain quickly cuts that line of thought off again. She thinks it will be even better if he just lets it be and leaves. She thinks Harry comes to the same conclusion when he takes the last few steps towards the door as the group of men are closing in on her again.

What happens then, her brain can hardly process, her heart leaping into her throat. Instead of getting the hell out of there like he was supposed to, Harry fucking Hart calmly bolts the doors from the inside uttering three words that Eggsy will never forget again.

“Manners… maketh… man.”

Dean’s minions decide to let up on her in favour of dealing with the older gentleman first, who seems so intent on a proper beating, and Eggsy can’t help but inwardly curse that bloody old fool’s supposed chivalry.

Harry continues talking, his voice collected and his back still turned towards his approaching aggressors, but his words barely register with Eggsy, because suddenly all hell breaks looks and she watches with baited breath as Harry Hart – a man, who she found out earlier is her elder by an entirety of twenty-six years – all but tears the group of six brutish guys apart. She’s not sure whether she is more impressed, turned on, dumbfounded or scared shitless by the scene happening before her eyes or all in equal shares. And if she hadn’t already figured it out before, she’d know now – as safe as the Bank of England – that Harry Hart is no fucking tailor.

When everyone but the two of them has gone down and is not likely to get up again anytime soon, Harry throws her a look as he sits back down in his old spot across from her and Eggsy can’t help but squirm nervously in her seat, sitting up a little straighter. What happens now? Is she gonna be next?

She doesn’t dare move or shift her gaze away from him as Harry slumps with a sigh, finishing the last few gulps of his Guinness as if he hadn’t just laid waste to a bar and everyone in it except for her.

“Sorry about that. Needed to let off a little steam,” he says rather conversationally, ”I heard yesterday a friend of mine died. He knew your father too, actually.” His voice has gone sad by then and Eggsy almost feels sorry for him. She would maybe offer her condolences, but her vocal chords still aren’t functioning, so she just continues staring.

“Now, I do apologize, Eggsy,” Harry continues as he gets up again, fiddling with his watch, which she has just seen shoot some kind of poisoned dart at the bar owner, “I shouldn’t have done this  
in front of you.”

He directs his watch at her now, face turning serious again and suddenly her voice starts working again and she’s talking rapidly, holding her hands up in a gesture of appeasement. And it’s only when she notices her breaths are coming out fast and irregular that she realises she has been holding her breath before.

“No, please! I won’t say nuthin’, I swear! If there's one thing I can do, it's keep my mouth shut.”

“You won’t tell a soul?”

“Ask the feds! I've _never_ grassed anyone up!”

“Is that a promise?” His voice is eerily quiet.

“On my life!” she vows desperately. She doesn’t want to forget this. If this moment of triumph over Dean is all she’ll ever get, if this stays the only time someone’s really done something nice for her, she wants to remember it.

It takes another few long seconds before Harry lowers his arm again, apparently satisfied with her asseverations.

“Much appreciated, Eggsy,” he continues with a slight upturn of his lips as if nothing had transpired and she slowly lets her arms sink down again.

“You’re right about the snobs. But there, too, there are exceptions,” he adds with a smile, picking his umbrella back up from the bench and reaching out to clasp a hand on her shoulder. She should flinch, by all means, she is not a person to enjoy casual touches like that under normal circumstances – she has been hit too many times even when she was younger for that to be the case – and Harry Hart is obviously a very dangerous man. But she doesn’t, doesn’t even feel the urge to as his hand settles on her shoulder, the pressure warm and weirdly comforting.

“Best of luck with everything.”

Then his hand disappears and she watches him stroll back to the door, unlatching it again and leaving the bar and probably her life without another glance back, leaving Eggsy confused and flustered and strangely longing, but with a warm feeling in her gut nevertheless.

 

* * *

 

As Harry enters the Kingsman cab already waiting for him at the roadside and tells the driver to bring him home, he feels a curious wave of excitement spreading throughout him. He finds himself surprisingly smitten with Lee Unwin’s daughter, her gall, her loyalty, her pride, her ardour and all of that righteous anger. He wonders if it was a mistake to let her keep her memories and he knows, though he is loath to admit it, that he did it at least partly, because vain as he is, he really _wants_ her to remember him. Another part of him actually considers the possibility that she _might_ just be the right person to become his candidate for Lancelot.

When he planted the bug on her and felt her slender shoulder beneath her oversized hoodie, he couldn’t help but doubt if she was physically capable of keeping up with Kingsman’s vigorous training regimen. She was 5’6’’ at best and her fitness was hard to discern underneath her baggy sweater jacket. But then he remembered the light-footed way she moved, her past excellence in gymnastics and her marines training and his misgivings silenced. She would adapt, he has a hunch she is well-versed in that regard.

Now he is curious to find out how much her word is worth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everone for reading and leaving kudos!  
> I finally understand now why people get so excited over them.  
> Hope you enjoy (^_^)

Eggsy spends the next few hours wandering around aimlessly, stopping by at the music shop a couple blocks away to play the piano for a bit. She goes there on occasion, has an agreement with the owner to use the sample piano for free, ever since Dean had gotten rid of her dad’s old piano in their cramped little flat, when she was still a kid, claiming it was a ‘fucking nancy piece of crap’.

While she plays she contemplates the man, she met earlier, who called himself Harry Hart. She isn’t sure if that’s his real name though, because some of the other things he’s led her to believe were clearly lies. But then again, ‘Harry Hart’ was such a dumb ass sounding false name that it quite probably wasn’t false after all, because the guy it belonged to was surely many things, but she didn’t think a dumb ass was one of them.

So who is Harry Hart? Not a bloody tailor that much is for sure. He definitely had known her father, she is sure of that, because he definitely was the one who had given her that medal. She stops playing for a moment to take out the trinket she wears as a talisman around her neck, looking it over as she has done a million times before. It doesn’t reveal more than any of the other times though, so she gives up trying to decipher its secrets after a while and goes back to playing.

Eggsy thinks back at the umbrella, clearly a weapon that one, so now the fact that he carried it with him even though the sun was shining brightly makes sense. Then there was the watch, the one that shot the poisoned darts or whatever the fuck they were. Both those things were clearly not military issued. Because what fucking soldier, no matter what division he was in or how secret his missions were, would be wearing a watch like that or ever need to carry an umbrella? No, those kind of items are more suitable for agents or spies of some sort, people who needed to blend into a crowd of regular people. MI6 or something along those lines maybe? Did that mean her father had been involved in that line of work as well somehow?

Whatever the case, it is unlikely Eggsy will ever see Harry Hart again, she is too disillusioned to believe in him ever helping her out in any way again and that is okay. She is grateful for what he did for her and she isn’t a bleeding damsel in distress after all, she can fight her own battles.

She is, however, worried about what repercussions his actions in the pub will have for her and wonders if he considered those, before he ‘let off some steam’. Probably not. Eggsy wonders why he felt the need to approach her, after she had cashed in her favour, and had made the effort to meet her in person at all. And the pragmatic part of her brain keeps thinking it would have been better for her if he hadn’t. Because now Harry was gone again and she was left to deal with what he did to her stepfather’s buffoons. She hadn’t thought that far, when she promised him she wouldn’t tell anybody about him. Because those guys will get back up, probably already have, and go running straight to Dean. And when he tries to beat the truth out of her, which he inevitably will, Eggsy will have nothing to tell him, nothing to divert his wrath. She still thinks, a small smile appearing on her face, meeting Harry Hart might have been worth it.

Maybe she could stay at Jamal’s place tonight, she contemplates. But her smile quickly crumbles when she is suddenly struck by a terrible thought. Eggsy doesn’t like to admit it, but she is truly scared of Dean, not for herself, she can take whatever that dickhead decides to throw at her, but scared that he might take his anger out on her mum or, even worse, her baby sister, Daisy. Because she isn’t convinced that her stepfather has enough decency inside of him to at least not raise a hand against his own daughter at some point. And Eggsy knows she would never forgive herself if that happened on account of her.

She doesn’t want to go home, but she steels herself to do so anyway. Because it’s not as if she’s got anywhere else to run and maybe if she goes to face Dean now, he will have cooled down enough by the time night falls for her to come back home and sleep in her own bed instead of roaming the streets alone later.

 

* * *

 

When Eggsy enters the flat, the TV is blaring, something about that billionaire Valentine. So someone is home. The moment she closes the door behind her, her mum is running towards her and she sees Dean getting up from the couch out of the corner of her eye.

Her mum’s voice is frantic as her hands clasp on Eggsy’s shoulders, beseeching her to leave again with panic in her eyes. Before she can even finish her rushed sentence, Dean’s fist already connects with Eggsy’s face though. She is pummelled backwards against the fridge by the brunt of the hit and Dean doesn’t give her any time to recover, before he follows it with a punch to her gut that makes Eggsy’s stomach turn. Her mum is screaming and crying, begging Dean not to hurt Eggsy. But her husband just grabs her and pushes her away like a mere nuisance, cursing at her to shut up, not letting up the bruising grip on Eggsy’s neck he has by now. Then he turns his attention back to Eggsy, who is busy trying to pry his greasy fingers off her throat.

And just like she knew he would the first and only thing he asks about is Harry. She tells him there was no one with her at the pub. He slaps her then, this time with an open palm, thankfully, but it still hurts, because it’s the same place he had hit her with his closed fist before. Another slap follows for every denial that leaves her lips. When it seemingly becomes clear to him that he isn’t getting anything out of her like this, Dean grabs for the meat cleaver lying on the counter and Eggsy’s mother turns her pleading towards Eggsy, begging her to just tell Dean what he wants to know. Eggsy doesn’t. Dean points the cleaver at her face, threatening to kill her, telling her that no one would miss her, no one would even notice. Eggsy is inclined to believe him, but she presses her lips together and holds her tongue, because she promised Harry and if she’s a disappointment in every other regard, at least she is as good as her word.

And then she _hears_ Harry’s _voice_ and she thinks she’s gone mental for a second. He is talking to Dean and it sounds like his voice is coming from somewhere behind her right shoulder. Her mind connects the dots quickly. It has to be some kind of bug, he had planted on her, when he had put his hand on her shoulder in parting, to make sure she wouldn’t renege on her promise. It was foolish of her to believe that her protestations would be enough to reassure him, if he was really an MI6 agent or something along those lines. Of course he would monitor her. What she doesn’t understand though is, why he felt the need to interfere, she hadn’t given him away.

It was only then that she notices that Harry’s bodiless voice, sounding as cool as a cucumber, is currently threating Dean, who looks confused but is obviously alarmed enough by Harry’s words to actually unhand Eggsy and let go off the cleaver as well.

Then Harry addresses her instead: “Eggsy, meet me at the tailor I told you about.”

She doesn’t pause for another second before she flees, hearing Dean swear: “What the fuck's going on here?” as she bolts out the door.

Just her luck, of course she runs right into Poodle and the other douche bags. She almost groans out load as Poodle shouts: “Eggsy, you fucking cunt!” She tries to make for the stairs first, but finds her path blocked by more of the wankers currently out for her head. So she runs to the side of the building, her persecutors hot on her heels, before she jumps over the railing landing about one storey lower on the walkway of the neighbouring building, swinging on the gutters and balancing on the railings to quickly make her way down to the exit of the estates. She’s there before the other morons even now what hit them. Eggsy gives them a cheeky smile, which kind of hurts her sore and bruised face, and the two finger salute, before she saunters off to find Savile Row.

 

* * *

 

Eggsy’s mind is buzzing as she makes her way through the streets of London in the falling dusk. The air is getting a bit chilly and she is shivering slightly underneath her sweater jacket, zipping it up and pulling the hood up over her blue snapback as she snuggles deeper into the fabric. It’s then that she remembers the bug. She reaches out a tentative hand to feel for it on her right shoulder and indeed, there it is, a tiny metallic bump on the fabric. She plucks it off gingerly, trying not to break it, and brings it towards her face for further inspection. It looks like a miniature speakerphone and a pleased smile spreads across her face.

Somehow it pleases her to know that Harry hadn’t left her to her own devices after all, that he had been watching out for her, _again_ , although he didn’t have to. And more importantly that he wanted to _meet_ her again at that curious tailor shop he was ostensibly working at. So he did see more in her than a failure after all, despite what he had said to her at the pub earlier. And just like the last time they met, she has no idea what Harry Hart wants with her, but this time she thinks, as she carefully slides the listening device into her pocket, she is a lot more excited to find out.

It’s dark by the time she finds the exclusive looking little shop that reads ‘Kingsman’ in big golden letters on the display window. She enters hesitantly and her eyes set on Harry, sitting on a sofa with a tumbler of what she assumes to be Scotch in his right hand, as soon as she’s on the threshold.

He doesn’t say anything or make a move to get up, so she figures it’s her turn to start the conversation. She puts her hands in her jacket pockets so as to not fumble around with them nervously. Because she feels surprisingly nervous now that she’s face to face with the older man again and he is scrutinizing her face like that. His eyes focus on the bruising on her cheekbone and what’s sure to be a spectacular shiner by tomorrow, then flicker down to her split lip.

His gaze is making her uncomfortable, because she is sure that unreadable look in his eyes is about to turn pitiful any second now and that’s a thought she cannot stand. She doesn’t know why she cares, but she knows she doesn’t want to appear weak in his eyes. So she clears her throat to catch his attention and starts speaking, trying to will her own voice into sounding calm and relaxed:

“I've never met a tailor before. But I know you ain't one.”

She takes another step towards him as she slips the bug, she had tucked away earlier, out of her pocket and holds it out to him in her open palm.

He doesn’t take it, just glances at it before emptying the rest of his glass in one gulp, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Then he looks back up at her with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Come with me,” is all he says as he stands, setting his glass on a side table and heading towards the counter of the shop. She pockets the bug again and follows him without hesitation.

He opens a door to the right and enters a small room with three tall mirrors in it, a fitting room obviously. She lingers in the doorway, unsure, and when Harry notices he turns.

“Come on in,” he encourages her, his voice kind and with a hint of amusement.

So she takes a breath and steps inside, moving to stand in front of the older man looking at their reflection in the mirror. They make such an uneven pair that it’s almost comical. Him, of advanced age, groomed and dressed to the nines, tall, with his back ramrod straight, one of his hands in his pocket, and her, short, young and not even looking her age – she might as well pass for a teenager at least in the clothes she’s wearing – a blue cap on her head, an oversized hoodie over a tank top and a tight fitting pair of jeans and white Adidas sneakers on her feet, topped off by a split lip and the beginnings of what is going to be some severe bruising on her face. She doesn’t feel any urge to laugh at their reflection though and when her eyes meet his in the mirror, she sees that they don’t even have that thing: his eyes are brown, while hers are green. Yet, looking at his, she feels a peculiar warmth spreading in her chest that she doesn’t want to think about too closely right now. She is eternally grateful, when he starts speaking again, before the warmth spreading inside of her manifests itself in a spectacular blush.

“What do you see?” Harry asks.

She doesn’t know what he wants to hear, so she just says it like her unfiltered mind supplies it: “Someone who wants to know what the fuck is goin’ on,” with a slight shake of her head.

That almost-smile from Harry, that has become familiar by now, is on his face again as he answers: “I see a young woman with potential.”

She sighs, because deep inside she knows he’s right, but she feels so defeated, like she’s tried to many times already and failed, and she thinks he wants her to try again and she _wants to_ but she doesn’t know _how_.

“A young woman who is loyal,” he continues, still holding her gaze, “who can do as she's asked. And who wants to do something good with her life.”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t know what to say to that and it seems he doesn’t expect her to, yet.

“Did you see the film ‘Trading Places’?”

She shakes her head, confused. “No,” she replies quietly, hesitantly, because she obviously should have and doesn’t want to disappoint him.

“How about Nikita?“ Another shake of her head. “Pretty Woman?” Still nothing and he finally seems to resign. His “All right…” sounds slightly despondent.

“My point is, that the lack of a silver spoon has set you on a certain path, but you needn't stay on it.  
If you're prepared to adapt and learn …you can transform.” The conviction with which he says those words make her feel both bashful and jubilant. And then at last the penny drops and she blurts:

“Oh! Like in “My Fair Lady”!”

She doesn’t actually feel embarrassed, she loves musicals, just like her mother, even though she’s never seen one live, never had the money for that.

The look Harry gives her isn’t one she’s ever seen on him before and she doesn’t know what it means. It melts into a smile though, a full one this time, not one of those half-smiles she has come to associate with him, as he says in a low but obviously pleased voice: “Well, you’re full of surprises.”

Eggsy knows it’s meant as a compliment and she takes it. Somehow she thinks Harry Hart is not the kind of person to be lavish with compliments, at least not with real ones.

“Yes, like “My Fair Lady”,” he adds, nodding and still giving her that look that she can’t read, but that makes her want to both smile and blush under its intensity.

Then his expression goes serious again. “Only, in this case, I'm offering you the opportunity to become a Kingsman.”

She gives him an assessing look. “A tailor?” she prompts her eyebrow raised mockingly, although they both know full well that that’s not what he’s talking about. But she wants to hear him say it.

And he delivers. “A Kingsman agent.”

 _Not MI6 then_ , she thinks, biting her lip before clarifying: “Like a spy?”

Because she still can’t quite believe that this is real, that it’s happening. That she will not wake up at some point to realise it had all been nothing but a dream created by her own overactive imagination and a mind that still believed in fairy tales.

“Of sorts,” is Harry’s only answer and she huffs out a breath with a shake of her head and a still disbelieving smile on her face.

“Interested?” Harry adds, because he is obviously still waiting for an answer.

And Eggsy doesn’t bother beating around the bush, because if this is real, then this is the one chance she’s been waiting for and she would be a fool not to take it. And really, what other choice does she have? Go back home to Dean and her mum and keep on living that train wreck she called a life up until now?

“You think I've got anything to lose?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be going to a different city for a job interview during the next days, so I'm awfully sorry, because updates might come a bit slowly...  
> I've started the next chapter already though, so I really hope I'll have time to finish it soon!
> 
> Oh and by the way, I kinda took that piano thing out of a lovely little movie called "Once", maybe you recognized it (otherwise, maybe check it out, it's beautiful and kind of heartbreaking). I just had that idea, because I recently saw a video snippet of Taron Egerton singing. I considered making Eggsy a good singer, but thought that was too cheesy, so I decided to go with some kind of instrument ;-)  
> I think I might let the piano reoccur at some point later in the story, but I'm not sure yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! My life is kinda turning upside down at the moment...  
> This isn't proofread very well, so if you find grave mistakes, feel free to point them out to me.  
> Enjoy ^_^

Actually, Harry Hart does look as if he thinks Eggsy has something to lose. He apparently chooses to keep his thoughts to himself, however, and Eggsy is grateful, she doesn’t want to think about or discuss what sacrifices she is or is not willing to make for her family again.

She pushes the thought away as Harry puts his palm flat against the surface of the mirror in front of them. The sound of a mechanism activating startles her and suddenly they’re moving downwards.

Harry recounts some of the history of the Kingsman Intelligence Agency to her and she wonders briefly how exactly this ‘highest level of discretion’ and ‘not-government-run’ thing works. How many people actually know about it? What about the heads of state? The executive power of Kingsman must come from somewhere, right? How big is the organisation? Do they have several branches in different countries?

Harry seems quite engrossed in his tale, she notices with a touch of fondness. It’s been a long time since she believed in ‘knights’ herself, whether they be wearing armour or suits, but Harry clearly seems to be a firm adherent of the notion. Eggsy could roll her eyes and laugh at him, but she doesn’t. Who would have guessed that a man who could be so ruthless and lethal is a romantic at heart? Eggsy thinks it’s surprisingly sweet. It also makes her remember what had caused Harry to intervene at the pub, that maybe he was actually offended by that hooker comment on _her_ behalf and not his own. She wants to believe that.

When she realises he’s stopped speaking, she asks: “How deep does this fuckin’ thin’ go?” Because they have to be several storeys below ground level by now and the lift/dressing room shows no signs of stopping yet.

“Deep enough,” is all Harry says and his tone sounds amused and the tiniest bit smug.

She cannot help but call him out on it this time: “You’re enjoyin’ all that cryptic talkin’ stuff, ain’t ya, Harry? And while that crap’s probably necessary for a spy, I’m also pretty sure, you’re just bein’ a little shit.”

He only throws her an unimpressed look at her impudence, but something in his face twitches and she’s pretty sure he is suppressing a smile. In any case it’s enough to make her feel pleased instead of rebuked.

The lift finally reaches its destination and they enter some kind of tube, continuing their travel horizontally this time. She takes the opportunity to ask Harry some more questions about Kingsman and as always, Harry answers but doesn’t delve too much into details, and she understands this time, because of course he could not discern classified information to someone who wasn’t even part of the organisation … _yet_.

He does, however, tell her about their codenames, the “Knights of the Roundtable”, that she is his candidate for the newly vacated position of Lancelot and that she isn’t the only one. There are going to be try-outs. He doesn’t need to explicitly mention it for her to know that the previous holder of the position of Lancelot was the recently deceased friend he had mentioned in the pub earlier today. He does mention though that it’s the same position her father tried out for seventeen years ago. Probably as a further incentive for her to really give it her best in the trials, as if she needed any further incentive than to escape her fucked-up life.

She gets kind of lost in her own thoughts after that and they lapse into a silence, that is oddly comfortable for two people who have just met less than twelve hours ago. It surreal, because it feels like so much longer than that already.

The tube stops with a jolt and Harry muttering, “Shit, we’re late,” without in fact seeming very perturbed by the fact. As they exit the vehicle, Eggsy’s gaze is immediately drawn to a large window opening into what looks like an enormous station concourse, only instead of rail tracks and trains it houses every kind of vehicle you could possibly imagine. From private jets to helicopters, some of them clearly military, and cars of every design and …wait, was that a tank back there? She could feel the stupid grin spreading on her face, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“Your father had the same look on his face,” comes Harry’s soft voice from her right. He sounds unexpectedly tender and she wants to turn and look at him, but cannot quite tear her eyes away yet. “As did I,” her companion adds after a pause, before apparently switching back to business mode, making for a door to their right and prompting her to follow again.

They make their way through a myriad of hallways and up several flights of stairs and although in the beginning Eggsy tries her best to memorise the way, she gives up after a while. It’s more than ten minutes later by the time they reach their destination.

A bald man, around Harry’s own age, also with glasses, but dressed more casually in a grey sweater above his dress shirt and tie, greets them: “Galahad.”

Before Eggsy can ever begin to wonder what the fuck that means, Harry helpfully supplies: “My code name.” The bald man pointedly checks his wrist watch, before adding with a very obviously Scottish accent: “Late again, sir.” His voice sounds more amused and fond than chiding though. _Now that is interesting_ , Eggsy thinks. It seems Harry Hart has an unbecoming habit of tardiness, how very ungentlemanly. At least Harry has the grace to look slightly sheepish, before he turns to Eggsy again.

“Good luck,” he breathes, sounding a bit tense. Not very reassuring.

At least the bald man smiles warmly at her pointing towards the door opposite of them. “In you go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Behind the door is a group of eight people around Eggsy’s own age. But that is pretty much where the similarities end already. She thinks their clothes look like straight out of ‘Dead Poets Society’ or something – yes, she’s seen that movie, thank you very much – and each item probably cost more than Eggsy’s whole belongings at home together. Eight heads turn towards her, sizing her up as she makes her way over with as much confidence as she can muster. Wouldn’t do to cower from these posh fuckers, considering they would be her competition.

There’s two other girls, both looking refined and wealthy, but it’s surprising nonetheless, she hadn’t expected even that much gender equality. The rest are exactly what she’d expected though, a bunch of cocky, white rich boys. She suddenly feels a warm wave of affection for Harry course through her, for picking _her_ of all people – and her father before that – as his candidate, he must have ruffled quite a few feathers by doing so. _Maybe we have things in common after all_ , she thinks with a bit of giddiness. As somewhat of an afterthought, her mind adds evilly, _I wish I was black though._ Some of these wankers would have surely gotten an actual heart attack then.

The guy in the front looks like he wants to say something to her, a smug grin on his face, but doesn’t get the chance to, as a voice sounds from behind Eggsy.

She falls in line with the other candidates just like in the military, as the bald guy introduces himself as Merlin and then calmly proceeds to tell them about the dangers they’re about to face, as well as threating them into strict confidentiality. Eggsy is not sure if she’s buying it or not, but vows to herself to preferably not find out first-hand.

As Merlin leaves the room, she steps towards the last empty bed, only now noticing that everyone else obviously brought luggage. _Damn you, Harry…_ Oh well, she’s been in worse situations before, right? Then she eyes the body bag lying next to her blanket, _…or maybe not_.

“Roxanne,” she hears a voice from her right. It belongs to a friendly looking blonde girl, who’s even shorter than Eggsy – thank god – extending a hand to her in greeting, “but call me Roxy.”

The name fits her – she seems nice enough, but her voice and eyes hold determination, this one ain’t no pushover – and the fact that she offers her nickname meets Eggsy’s approval instantly. Nodding Eggsy shakes her hand, “I’m Eggsy,” she offers.

“Eggy?” Roxy asks with a raised eyebrow and a quirk of her lips.

“No, _Eggsy,_ ” she supplies with a smile.

They get interrupted rather quickly by the douchebag who’s been giving Eggsy snide looks ever since she entered the room.

“ _Eggy_ ,” he says with his hands resting on his hips, giving her another once-over, and he obviously listened in on their conversation and thinks deliberately mispronouncing her name will somehow get a rise out of her. _Oh Lord, now that’s just pitiful,_ she thinks, raising her eyebrows mockingly at him.

“Where did they dig you up?” He might be considered handsome, but his voice is just as gungy as the look he’s giving her.

“You know we're not allowed to discuss who proposed us,” Roxy cuts in with as much distaste in her voice as Eggsy is feeling towards the bloke.

Another two guys join the conversation quickly, obviously either prior acquaintances of the first guy or at least acting chummy already, the stereotypical sidekicks. They supply their names and she shakes their hands with a faint smirk on her face: Charlie, Digby and Rufus. Something tells her Charlie might be the Charles Logan to her Jack Bauer. Well, it never hurts to have an antagonist to truly push yourself, few things drive success as much as competition.

“So, _Eggy_ , are you Oxford or Cambridge?” Rufus asks. “Neither,” she supplies, unimpressed. Those morons obviously couldn’t fathom that someone could be proposed for Kingsman without having attended an elite university. _Let them underestimate me_ , she thinks, that could only work in her favour. “Saint Andrews?” – “Durham?” the boys continue, “No, wait, I think we may have met. Did you serve me at the McDonald's in Winchester service station?”

Eggsy doesn’t rise to the bait. She just gives Rufus her sweetest smile, taking a step closer – right into his personal space – and says mildly: “No – but if I ‘ad, I’ve given you an extra ‘elpin’ of secret sauce,” pointedly making a sound of gathering mucus in her throat as if she was about to gob.

Rufus looks appalled at her crude display, turning his head away. “It's definitely Saint Andrews,” Charlie says with a snorting laugh, before they disperse again, all of them – including Eggsy – with a smirk on their faces. She can work with that.

She keeps on talking to the other two girls for a bit, Roxy and Amelia, both seem pleasant and she’s surprised. In her experience it’s usually the girls who tend to bitch at each other first, even when it would be more sensible to stick together. She’s somewhat relieved but still a bit weary that that doesn’t seem to be the case here, but only time will tell.

After a short while someone enters with one bag for each of them. It consists a bunch of supplies, they’re apparently going to be needing during their training process: some kind of overalls, boots, towels and several other things. Eggsy is relieved to find that she gets a slightly bigger bundle containing the basic necessities like underwear, shampoo, a toothbrush etc. Well, let the games begin then.

 

* * *

 

 

Amelia’s death rattles her. It’s been a week since that first fateful night and although their training is inexorable and she basically drops unconscious the moment her head hits the pillow every night, Eggsy can’t help but think about the other woman, whenever her mind gets a minute of idleness.

She barely knew her at all, they hadn’t exchanged more than a couple of friendly words, but Eggsy keeps wondering about the life and the family she must have left behind. What kind of person had Amelia been? Did she like animals? Art? Poetry? Was she sporty? A science girl? A computer nerd? A fashionista? What about her parents? Her friends? Did she have a partner or lover maybe? There have to be people who miss her, people who loved her. What had they been told? Eggsy doesn’t know – couldn’t really have known after having just met her – but still it makes her feel ashamed in an inexplicable way.

She is currently sitting in an armchair at the library of the manor, her feet tucked underneath her, blissfully alone for once except for JB sleeping contentedly in her lap. It’s the first two hours of downtime since she arrived at the manor and she is trying to read about the Arthurian legend, since Kingsman seems partial to references to that particular myth, but she can’t seem focus on the words on the pages at all. The soft snoring of her tiny pug relaxes her a bit and she looks down towards him with a loving gaze. She chuckles softly at herself for thinking he was a bulldog.

She’s only had him for a week, but she’s found out by now that he’s a stubborn, snorting, farting and incredibly clingy little fella, who prefers to spend as much time of the day as possible sleeping and thinks obedience is optional. She loves him already.

_I wonder what kind of dog Amelia would have picked,_ she thinks and the smile on her face dies.

She’s startled out of her sombre reverie by a shadow falling over her and someone clearing their throat. It’s Harry, she notices and her heart rate picks up instantly. She hasn’t seen him since he dropped her off with Merlin, doesn’t know if any of the other candidates have had contact with their proposers respectively. She knows the candidates are not allowed to discuss them among each other, it’s part of the confidentiality agreement and since she’s spend almost every minute with the other candidates since her arrival, she guesses it makes sense that she hasn’t seen anything of Harry during the last week.

“Good evening, Eggsy,” he says, before gesturing to the armchair next to hers, “may I sit?” His voice is calm and pleasant and she’s hit with the sudden shocking realization that she’s _missed_ him. _Oh damn. Way to go, Eggsy, getting attached far too quickly. I’m sure that’s a desirable trait in a spy,_ she mentally berates herself. But this has always been a problem for her, hasn’t it? She lets herself be distracted from her training by the death of an opponent, charmed by the wide-eyed gaze of an unruly puppy and becomes smitten with the first guy crossing her path who happens to throw her a bone. _Get a grip, you pathetic little wimp!_

“Eggsy?” Harry prompts, his brow furrowed, giving her a concerned look and she realizes she didn’t answer him. “Yeah? Uh, sure,” she says shrugging – very eloquent, Eggsy – trying for a nonchalant, but failing as she can feel a counteracting blush tinting her cheeks. As expected, Harry is too polite to comment, although she is sure he notices, and sits down.

He’s looking at her, his face inscrutable again, and she wishes she had the nerves to look him in the eye, but somehow he makes her feel naked under his gaze, as if he could see all of her weaknesses, all of her shortcomings, all of her _doubts_ in her eyes. So she’s looking down at the book in her hands, her fingers nervously picking off bits of invisible lint. He seems to follow her gaze, because he comments on her choice of reading matter next.

“‘Arthurian Literature In The Middle Ages’? Interesting choice. Not one of Merlin’s twisted assignments, is it?” he says with a hint of humour in his voice.

“No,” she chuckles, “it’s not. Just figured it wouldn’t ‘urt to know a bit ‘bout that kinda thin’, since, you know, Kingsman seems so fond of it.”

“Certainly. How is your training going, Eggsy? I heard you held your own quite well in the water trial,” his voice sounds slightly assessing and she looks up at that, wondering if he’s baiting her, how much he knows. His face doesn’t give anything away though, the look he gives her is innocent, so maybe she imagined it.

She contemplates her answer, unsure of how much to disclose of what she’s feeling. But trust needs to start somewhere, right? And Harry hasn’t given Eggsy any reason to doubt him so far. “A girl died,” she finally settles on saying, her voice guarded, “Amelia.”

Harry also seems to ponder his answer before replying: “Yes, I heard about that.” He doesn’t sound indifferent, which is a much bigger relief to her than Eggsy would ever admit, but he also doesn’t offer anything else. So she ventures further, grows bolder.

“Did her family get one of those medals, too?” she says and it sounds like an accusation, even to her own ears. When Harry doesn’t answer immediately, she adds: “Or was she not important enough for that?” She knows she’s being unfair, it’s not _Harry’s_ fault, but she can’t stop herself, needs to vent those feelings bottled up inside of her somehow. Because if Kingsman considers all of them to be disposable like that, then they have to think that way about the civilian population, too, right? And that’s just _wrong_ on so many levels and she isn’t even sure she wants to be here anymore. Sure, she had this fantasy of gentlemen spies inside her head, protecting the people, offing the bad guys and saving the world and all that crap, but that fantasy was shattered the moment she had seen Amelia’s lifeless body in that room and all for a stupid fucking test.

“Eggsy, Amelia’s death was tragic,” Harry says with an amount of gentleness and understanding that Eggsy isn’t sure, she deserves. He leans forward, closer towards her, his elbows braced on his knees, as he continues. His voice is still gentle but there is determination in it, too: “But she knew what she was signing up for before. As did you. As did your father and everyone else of us. Now you can choose to let this hold you back or you can choose to let it spur you on. I’m not expecting you to make light of her death. In fact, I believe your compassion to be one of your most admirable traits. But if you want to become a Kingsman you’re going to have to accept that you’re not always going to be able to save everyone. No matter how much you may want to.”

Eggsy’s face softens again, the fight leaving her as quickly as it surfaced, and she feels embarrassed for lashing out at him like this.

“I know how hard that can be,” Harry supplies, “but you can _use_ that. To make yourself better, to not make the same mistake again. Learn something from this experience. There is no better way to honour Amelia’s death than that.”

She swallows and nods, feeling the overwhelming urge to stand up and hug him, to feel his arms around her, holding her. She doesn’t, of course. Instead she runs her hands over JB’s soft fur, eliciting more contented snoring noises, which sound like a mixture of a cat’s purr and a broken hoover.

She manages to give Harry somewhat of a smile then, which he returns, and for once she allows herself to indulge in how warm and happy that makes her feel, as their conversation turns to other topics, the words _I believe your compassion to be one of your most admirable traits_ echoing inside her mind.


	4. Just a short author's note and a teaser to the next chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the long wait... :-( I have a new job, moved to a different part of my country and promptly my laptop broke as well, so yeah, just life as it goes sometimes, you know...  
> I just wanted to let you know I haven't abandoned this and I'm working on the next chapter now that I've got my laptop back, even though my internet access is still limited.  
> Just to shorten the wait the tiniest bit, here is just a very short teaser to the next chapter^^  
> Cheers!

Eggsy follows Harry’s advice. She takes all of her anger and fear and frustration and turns it into propulsion and the funny thing is, it actually works. Not only are her performances outstanding, but she also feels lighter somehow, freer, less burdened than she has ever felt as long as she remembers.

She often thinks about her family, of course, about Daisy and her mum. But she uses that, too, telling herself that she couldn’t help them before, but now for the first time she has a real chance to achieve something and by extension make their life better eventually as well.

She thinks about Harry, too, a lot – too often – and she doesn’t really know what to do with that. He just keeps invading her thoughts, no matter what she does, so after a while she doesn’t bother fighting it anymore. Surprisingly she finds she’s actually doing worse in her training if she does. So she allows the image of his warm brown eyes and the sound of his voice to float into her head, when she’s disassembling guns or running in full gear or learning about important people in politics, but she tries not to dwell on it too much. She’s not sure she wants to know _why_ this is happening or what exactly it is that is happening with her. She just lets those thoughts linger somewhere in the back of her mind, until they disappear or she’s ready to deal with them – which will probably be never, if she’s being honest with herself – and she almost feels content. 

The next time she sees Harry Hart, he’s in a coma.


End file.
